Diary of a Radical Mermaid (14 page)

“Where’s Juna Lee these days? Still out of town? Having her fangs sharpened?”

“I’ll tell you over lunch. It’s a story that deserves martinis.”

I gaped at the array of intricate, unique jewelry spread among glittering glass display counters. “What a beautiful shop! Your jewelry! And, oh, your cats!” The Persians rose from their luxurious beds, stretched languidly, and came to me, rubbing my legs and purring. I bent to pet them. “What pretty meows. I wish my old kitty could still get around as well as you do. I miss having him do a figure-eight around my ankles. Not that I didn’t take a few falls that way.”

“All right,” a gorgeous man said, striding from a doorway to a back room. “This one, Tula. I’ll send this one to her next. Maybe she’ll stop throwing the gift boxes off the balcony. She hit a cabana boy the other day.” He held a fantastic emerald choker in one hand and a jeweler’s eyeglass in the other. I stared at him. He was no Rhymer, but he’d put your average Hollywood hunk to shame. He saw me and halted. Offering a perfectly mannered but stunning smile, he gave me a graceful up and down then said, “Rhymer’s finally gotten lucky.”

What was that supposed to mean? What I hoped? I went all hot and fluffy, mumbling, “Tula? Hmmm?” until she rescued me with an arm through mine. “Molly, I’d like to introduce you to Juna Lee’s better half — some would say, far better — Jordan Brighton.”

I was speechless for a moment, which didn’t stop me from broadcasting my newly acquired Mer radio frequency. Jordan arched a brow sardonically. “Yes, I know. How could she possibly deserve me?”

“I . . . well, I . . . where is Juna Lee?”

Tula and Jordan traded a look. He nodded. Tula turned to me. “She’s been exiled.”

I looked from Tula to Jordan. “Did she leave willingly, or was an exorcism required?”

Jordan laughed, then held up the magnificent necklace. “Let’s just say this: It was my doing, and my apologies are expensive.”

A man of courage and good taste, at least in jewelry. What could such a man see in Juna Lee? Tula linked an arm through mine. “I’ll tell you what: Loyalty, passion, and the challenge of surviving the Mer equivalent of a pet tigress.”

“Who says I’ll survive?” Jordan said with an edge to his voice.

I decided to change the subject. “Speaking of large cats, Tula, thank you for leasing a Jaguar for me. I signed some books for the Mer, hmmm, Mer-man, who delivered it. He was very nice.” There. I had acknowledged Mer-dom openly. I had voluntarily entered the Mer Matrix.

Tula’s smile vanished. So did Jordan Brighton’s.

“What Jaguar?” Tula said.

“What man?” Jordan asked darkly.

* * * *

That night I caught the bloody liar outside his posh digs up at Sea Island, off the coast of St. Simon’s. Kings, queens, presidents and movie stars bunk there. A favorite Mer stopover.

“Fight me, and your throat will be wearing a smile,” I said. I slung him and his Armani suit face-first against a wall hidden by oleander shrubs and kept my sword pointed at his Adam’s apple. “My name’s Rhymer McEvers. What’s yours?”

“I see you’re a Peacekeeper,” he managed, recognizing the vibes, speaking into the wall. “But I’ve done nothing—”

“Don’t make me give you that smile.”

“I’ll report you to the Council! This is not how Peacekeepers are supposed to treat—” His voice ended in a gasp as I pressed the sword’s tip deeper into his skin.

“Do no’ be tellin’ me you weren’t lying to M. M. Revere today. I feel the lie like it’s a train vibrating on the rails. Speak, or I’ll let it run over you. Who are you, and what do you want with her?”

“All right, all right. I’m Alamande Oltovelli. From New York. I deal in books. I wanted her to sign some first editions. Her autograph on first editions is worth a small fortune.”

I bored into his thoughts as best I could — Mers are good at hiding guilty thoughts from other Mers — and after a few seconds I had to admit I sensed no other deception. He wasn’t Orion in disguise. He was a rare book dealer, just scoring Moll’s autograph by means of an elaborate ruse to deliver a car. I lowered the sword. He looked up at me with the terror of a blowfish cornered by an orca. “I meant no harm,” he said. “I just heard through gossip that M.M. Revere had come out as a Mer, and was summering in Bellemeade, and I wanted to—”

“Trick her and take advantage of her.”

“Do you know what her autographed books will sell for among our people, now that she’s out of the closet? Mer children haven’t been this excited about a Mer author since Hans Christian Anderson.”

“She’d have signed the books without your lie, if you’d asked.”

“Don’t be so sure. She’s notoriously shy. Some authors don’t do many public signings, so autographed first editions are rare. In her case, I can see why she stays away from her fans. The bad leg. And she’s skinny. She’s not exactly an attractive — agggh.”

I stuck the sword’s tip in his side. With a quick, upwards slice I opened a good length of suit, shirt, and skin. Just a scratch. He reeled back, clasping his nicked ribs, too scared to utter a yelp, but staring at me as if I might turn cannibal on himonly  next. The bastard didn’t dare say again, ‘I’m reporting you to the Council.’ Not if he wanted to see his tailor in the morning, instead of a surgeon.

“Be gone with you,” I ordered. “Stay away from her.”

He nodded wildly, clasped his sliced Armani jacket to his bloody side, and dashed down a path that led to one of the resort’s doors.

I let the sword sag to my side. Around me, frogs sang to one another, and the damp, sexual heat of a coastal night rose inside my senses along with the aroma of fine flowers and nearby ocean and decadent luxury. A night for lovers. Wishes and regrets were all the courtship I could manage for Moll. I had a bad feeling I wasn’t going to live long enough to earn her love.

* * * *

Moll stood on the shingled front porch at Randolph Cottage, wearing a silk robe that clung to every slender curve and would have been see-through, dammit, if only the dawn light would hurry up. But the sky was just the palest pink over Sainte’s Point by the time I returned from Sea Island, and I couldn’t stay for the sunrise. I stood in the yard, keeping my distance, catching traces of her fine, soft scent, thinking immoral thonly oughts. She latched one hand at the robe’s bosom and one hand down at her thighs, over the other portal of embarrassment. Shy, no. Not shy. Dignified. And worried. About my exploits and my safety. I pretended it was something else.

“No need to worry, Moll. He was just after your autograph.”

“I smell . . . I sense . . . blood. Not yours. His. He paid a high price for my signature.”

“I just scratched him. He’ll be fine. I’ve gotten worse diving among prickly fish.”

You threatened that man on my behalf, I heard her think. You drew blood, for me. She gave off a silent song of pleasure.

God, I adore this honest woman.

She heard me think that.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “I admit it. I’m medieval and bloodthirsty.” Now, come here and ravish me as your reward. Ohmigod, he didn’t hear that last part, did he?

Oh, yes, I did, and, when she realized it, a chorus of Omigods skittered from her psyche like a rapper’s chant. Omi, omi, omi, omigod god god. She wasn’t used to being undisciplined about sex, much less sharing her brainwaves on the subject. She’d spent years ignoring all that bottled up heat, subconsciously waiting for a man of her own kind — a real man, yes, I’m no’ too humble to put it that way — to deserve her. Now she was aching to give as good as she got. And I wanted to take her up on it.

Moll, if it makes you feel any better, I’d like to rip that robe off you and carry you into the bay and have my way with you.

Quaintly put, but the style suited her.

She fumbled for the arm of the wicker chair behind her and sat down weakly on its seashell cushions. “Okay,” she said out loud, very prim. “You have my permission.”

I laughed like a pirate, trying to be jaunty. “Save your booty for later. I’ve got to get back to the island.”

“I know.” She almost moaned the words. “Can’t you call the . . . the Mer police, or some such thing, for back-up?”

“Afraid not.” I touched the small, curving, jeweled sword strapped by a leather band across my chest. Change the subject. “Do no’ worry so much, Moll. I’m a tough piece of work, and this blade, in my hands, will be more than a match for Orion, should it come to that.”

Her worried eyes went to the sword. “It’s beautiful. And deadly looking.”

“’Tis a holdover from older times. The blade was forged of metal by a famed Mer swordssmith in Scotland. If you believe fanciful legend, it’s the only kind of sword that can harm a Swimmer.”

“Can’t I help you some way? At least let me meet your nieces. I’ve very good with children. Couldn’t I visit the island and keep them company?”

“No.” The word rang out harder than I liked.

“Please. I’m not afraid of Orion.”

“You’re terrified. I don’t blame you.”

She got up from the chair proudly, wavering a little without her cane, but straight as a sloop’s mast. What a looker she was, slight as a wisp of cloud, teak-wood hair moving in soft flutters around a smart, big-eyed face — it was like meeting an elf in modern times. And the rest of her, delicate but not so fragile as she thought — the rest of her was more than fine. I felt the warmth in her, and the tart sweetness, and that steely pride.

“I may not look like much of a fighter, but I am. Not in the physical sense, but I am very good at emotional support. I’ve taken care of myself since I was fifteen-years-old. When it comes to solid stick-to-it-tiveness, I’m the Rock of Gibraltor.”

“No doubt, Moll, but if you’re a rock, then I’m a hard place.” I pointed to myself. “I’m harder around you than you know.”

You could say I made a Freudian slip. She tried to blush but it was more of a glow in the pink darkness. I kicked myself on behalf of my lusty rocks of Gibraltar. “That is to say,” I went on grimly, “that is to say . . . No. Simply that. No. I won’t let you get involved. Stay here. Stay away.”

I nodded my parting to her, then turned and strode manfully out of the yard as if I weren’t a wreck. I did the manful walk to the end of the cottage’s pier, then dived off into the cold, dark brine. I felt her silent keen all the way to the island. And my own.

Wrestling Aphrodite
Chapter
14

Dear Diary:

Shit. Sorry, but that’s the best word. Shit. I climbed five stories down the pink-flowered lattice of a mandevilla vine outside my balcony at Chez Prison de Araiza, while everyone was distracted by some gaudy Caribbean festival involving lots of steel drums, fireworks, and rum hurricanes. Just as I stepped off onto terra firma, my Amazon warden grabbed me by one arm, threw me down on my back, then straddled me and sat down on me. “Juna Lee, did that vine look like the guest floor elevator to you?” she asked drily.

Gasping, I stared up at two hundred pounds of cocoa princess poured into a strapless white mini-dress. Her long black hair was wound up with pearls, and a huge cluster of pearls and diamonds hung from a heavy silver chain around her neck. The brooch nestled between breasts bigger than my head. “Don’t let your boobs fall out of that Versace. I could get a concussion.”

She leaned over me, smiling wickedly, threatening to let the mammary twins do a bungee jump on my forehead. “The Council would give me a medal.”

“Do you have a name, other than Shamu?”

“The name is Aphrodite. I’ve told you more than once, but you never pay attention.”

“I don’t listen to the hired help.”

“Hired help?” She slid to one side but kept me pinned with one long, gleaming brown leg. She pointed to the coral-tipped toes peeking from a high-heeled white sandal. Dusky pink webbing glimmered in the light of a nearby lamppost. “I keep telling you I’m a Mer. An Araiza Mer.”

“Oh, please. I’ve never met a Mer with the body mass index of a Sumo wrestler. And I’ve never met an Araiza who—”

“Watch it, white girl.”

“— who had such a . . . dark tan.”

“Araizas are Latin. Latins come in vanilla, chocolate, and everything in between. My mother came from Cuba. My father was Hernandez Araiza. They met in pre-Castro Havana, the 1940s. He owned a casino. She was a star performer there. A novelty singer and comedienne. She wore headdresses of fruit and painted her lips such a bright red she could signal Miami with her smile.”

“Oh, great. You’re a cross between a black Carmen Miranda and Ricky Ricardo.”

“You obnoxious little puta.”

“Fine. You hate me. I hate you. We’re even. Just sling your enormous thigh toward the nearest Weight Watchers meeting and let me escape.”

“Oh, I wish I could. I wish I could escort you to the ocean and throw you in. Headfirst. On a shallow sandbar.”

“Wait a minute. I’m feeling something, sensing something—” I put one hand to my head, ala Karnak the Magnificent on the old Johnny Carson Show.

Aphrodite drew back at little. Her black eyes flashed. “Keep your claws out of my psyche, Senorita Sinister.”

“I’m sensing — ah hah!” I jabbed a finger at her triumphantly. “You’re doing community service, just like me! The Council has sentenced you to house arrest here on the islands! House arrest and community service! Hah! Compared to you, I’m an angel! What’d you do — smother some old sugar daddy during rough sex?”

She wrapped a hand around my throat. I coughed and struggled, which only made her tighten her grip. She looked down at me with disgust, then spoke a long stream of obscene but well-educated Spanish. She switched to English at the end of her little speech with “and the Council said I’d already been warned twice to stay away from UniWorld’s London office. So I’m being punished. I have to spend a year doing chores for the Council, so here I am, performing warden duty for a prissy little Southern belle Poinfax.”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those paranoid Mers who’s convinced UniWorld has some dastardly plans beyond world domination. You couldn’t possibly be a violent sociopath and a crackpot conspiracy nut all rolled into one.”